


Pain is Inevitable, Suffering is Optional

by PhoenixxWispp



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Emotional, Falling In Love, First Kiss, Light Angst, M/M, Rare Pairings (Sort of)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-11
Updated: 2017-03-11
Packaged: 2018-10-02 20:27:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10226594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhoenixxWispp/pseuds/PhoenixxWispp
Summary: "Ever warrior must learn the simple truth, that pain is inevitable and suffering is optional." -Malcolm MerlynMalcolm Merlyn and Oliver Queen...the Hood and the Dark Archer. But neither knows the other...do they?





	

Malcolm Merlyn hates physical contact.

Nanda Parbat successfully transformed him into weapon, and he was taught through blood and bruises that physical contact most likely ends with injury or death. He’s suffered too many beatings to trust another man’s hand ever again.

But he thinks back to all that training, all that pain, all that _suffering_ , and he wonders vaguely what led him to be here. Here, now, allowing Oliver pin him against the wall.

 

…

 

**One Week Ago**

 

Malcolm sighs.

Paperwork never fails to bore him, and he feels as if he’s drowning in meetings, papers, and old men who ask way too many questions.

He twists the gold cap on his desk, revealing for the outdated, antique phone. People have tried to convince him to sell the old model, but he always refused hotly. They don’t know what’s on this phone.

Of course, he’s downloaded the voice messages onto his private network in case the old thing failed, but he preferred to hear it from the original carrier. He closes his eyes and taps the message. It never fails to make him feel like a failure when he listens to Rebecca’s cries and pleas for his appearance. It never fails to drive a spear of guilt through his heart when he realizes, if only he picked up the phone, Rebecca would not have died alone and might not have died in the first place.

But despite the torrent of guilt, pain, anger, and loss, Malcolm makes himself listen to the voice message. It reminds him of what he was before....before Al-Saher. He closes his eyes and remembers Nyssa’s face when she demands a reason not to him, and he pulls a coin out of her ear, the same way he did for Tommy when he got bored or had trouble sleeping.

The voice messages finally end, but the pain that grips his heart, does not.

He can’t remember the name of those he’d killed. Should he? Would that make him better if he’d at least honor those who he’s taken the most precious gift from? Ra’s made sure he understood death was beautiful in it’s own way, but he only feels empty when he took a life. Al-Owal tried to make him see the beauty as well, but Malcolm simply can’t. Perhaps that made him worse than them - he didn’t even try to see positivity in death. He simply kills and thinks nothing of it.

Finally, he breaks free of this thoughts and stands up, straightening his suit.

He thinks of visiting Moira, and that's what he does. He wants to be anywhere but here, in the belly of Merlyn Global Group, and so he calls up a limo. When he tells the driver to go to Moira’s, the driver’s face twisted into an thin, intuitive smile like it always does. The driver most likely knows about him and Moira and both he and Malcolm knows that information is why a simple driver’s salary is so high.

He arrives within the hour, traffic jams stopping them here and there. Malcolm stares out the window, and in the distance, he can see the Glades.

A familiar whoosh of anger threatens to drag him under as he casually opens the limo door. When he sees Moira push open her front door, he curses softly to himself.

“Aljahim,” he mutters. It’s Arabic. The language he was forced to learn during his stay with the League. The word itself means the very essence of his perception of this world. He trembles a little bit.

But when he steps up to greet Moira, his voice deadly silent and unequivocally flat. A flash of pain strikes across Moira’s face, but she doesn’t respond, and that flash could only have been seen through the most perceptive of eyes. Malcolm snorts to himself. He was League of Assassins. Perception isn’t his issue.

“Malcolm,” Moira whispers. “To what do I owe this pleasure?” Malcolm’s eyes darken unnoticably, but he slaps on a plastic smile as he responds.

They talk over some lovely wine, no doubt purchased with great amounts of money. Not a hint of their affair dares surface here. Now, in the Queen living room, there’s only room for business and simple affection that could be easily passed as that of a long friendship.

A long friendship indeed.

Malcolm refills Moira’s glass with a lavish smile. He notices that Walter isn’t home, and that was probably for the best. They talk some more and drink some more, until Malcolm finally decides to leave. He stands up theatrically, and shakes Moira’s hand, just as Oliver enters the house.

Macolm is surprised when he can’t see Robert in Oliver’s eyes. He’s always surprised at that fact. Perhaps it makes him feel better. His guilt after his affair with Moira extended to not just Rebecca’s memory, but to Robert as well. And to have to face his son with that same guilt...

Oliver offers to accompany him home, and Malcolm wants to decline before Moira interrupts and says what a lovely idea it was. Malcolm turns to give her a challenging glare, but Moira only smiles back, the shape of her lips more genuine than anything he could ever pull off. Either Moira was a better liar or she was a better person. Malcolm sincerely believed it to be the latter. He’s been through too much to be a good person anymore, and he’s been through enough more to make him stop caring.

So Oliver joins him in the limo, and the driver’s lewd smile only dances wider, and perhaps then was the first time that Malcolm notices the sheer _presence_ of Oliver Queen. He took up only one seat of the limo, but he seemed to be everywhere. The sidelong smile Oliver gives him makes Malcolm look away and shiver, praying to Ra’s Al Ghul that Oliver didn’t see. Hilarious. He prays to the Demon’s Head for a matter as simple as Oliver.

The ride goes by uneventfully with nothing but a few exchanges between the two. The traffic grew heavy, though, heavier than before and Malcolm suddenly feels as if he needs air. He wants to smash the window open and jump out to flee, away from the suggestive driver, away from the cool leather of the limo seats, and away from Oliver Queen.

He’s never felt so vulnerable because of another man.

They drop Oliver off at where Verdant would soon stand. Oliver smirked at him through the barely concealing stubble on his face, and sends him a wave before disappearng into the abandoned building. It isn’t until he arrives home and collapses on his king sized bed when he finally allows his mouth to drop open like it wanted to do back when Oliver smiled at him.

 _I shouldn’t be afraid,_ Malcolm thinks, kicking himself inwardly. _Al-Saher can do anything, and Dark Archer can do even more._

But even so, fear stabs at him as he falls into a sleep plagued with Oliver’s face.

 

…

 

**Four Days Ago**

 

Three more days pass, but Malcolm doesn’t register them. He feels as if the days and weeks and months are mushing together, and Malcolm is just drifting through them. He doesn’t even count the days towards the Undertaking.

Ah...the Undertaking. He doesn’t even think twice about unleashing such a terror upon all those people. They deserved it. Every last one of them.

But Oliver’s smile seemed to make him falter.

He still hates the Glades with all his heart, existent or not, but it was as if he was drowning in the darkness, whether it be Rebecca’s death or Ra’s Al Ghul, or even Al-Owal. Oliver’s smile alone seemed to be like a lightness, perhaps invoking a shred of humanity trapped deep within him. Malcolm knows he should be furious. Who was Oliver to make him question the deed he knew he would be doing for Ra’s knew how long? Who...who _was_ Oliver?

He seemed to be hiding something. His smile, like Malcolm’s own, was so fake and chiseled looking that, from one broken person to another. Oliver just had that aura of power that surrounded him.

The Hood, perhaps?

Malcolm laughs and shrugs off the ridiculous notion. Of course Oliver Queen wasn’t the Hood. The Hood was someone much like himself. The ruthless, unrelenting _power_ of the Hood was something that Malcolm could see in the darkness. Oliver Queen wasn’t dark.

Malcolm swallows down some whiskey, the strongest he could dig up without leaving the comfort of his bedroom, and he lie down, sleep washing over him. He wonders, right before unconsciousness took over, if he could love another man, especially someone such as Oliver Queen.

 

…

 

**Three Days Ago**

 

Malcolm awoke with a start, drenched in sweat.

Oliver’s place in his dreams was long washed away, replaced by Al-Owal’s hand and Rebecca’s cries. His training for the League of Assassins never quite left him, and it kept him scarred and fearful. He swings his legs up, out of bed with a groan and feels quite ill. It takes him a few moments to brush his teeth, freshen up, and change into  three piece suit sure to make him hot and uncomfortable later in the day. 

Not that he would ever complain about that out loud - the League had culled such immaturity from him. 

When he walks down the stairs of his manse, he's distantly aware of how silent his footsteps are, even though his dress shoes should slap loudly against the wood. While he ponders that out of sheer boredom, he hears a knock on the door. 

Malcolm's heart leaps to his throat when he opens it and finds Oliver standing there, holding his side while panting like a wild animal. Malcolm quickly lends Oliver a hand and half drags half carries Oliver up the stairs and into a guest bedroom. Oliver lays down on the bed with a groan and that's when Malcolm realizes someone has stabbed Oliver in the side. It was a relief when Malcolm finds it's just a flesh wound.

The simple possessiveness that rises up in Malcolm's mind is enough to scare him but also jolt him into action. Carefully, he peels off the light tee-shirt Oliver's wearing to reveal the...the...

"What," Malcolm murmurs, his breath hitching as his eyes track over the numerous scars over Oliver's torso and chest. Oliver looks up at him, his eyes glowing oddly, as Malcolm traces the curve of Oliver's muscle. But Malcolm realizes his mistake immediately, and lets his hand drift away and he straightens up to correct himself. "What happened?" 

Oliver's gaze drops like a scolded dog, and Malcolm allows himself to think that perhaps, just maybe, Oliver was hoping for...

"I...this guy tried to steal my watch and he stabbed me when I said no," Oliver says sheepishly. Malcolm's lips thins in disappointment. Ra's Al Ghul taught him how to spot a lie, and this was definitely a lie. But not only that, his mind whirls back to the first man he killed - the man who killed Rebecca. That man had tried to steal his watch as well, and it brought back painful memories. 

But when Malcolm's mind was dragged back into the present, he doesn't bother to attempt driving a truthful answer from Oliver. He just leans over, to patch Oliver's side. The blade was short and not really meant to be lethal, and the point of entrance wasn't anywhere important, either. But the only interesting thing Malcolm notices as he clean's Oliver's wound, was the way Oliver never even flinches as he brings an alcohol covered towel to the wound and dabs it clean. Malcolm stitches the wound, applies some ace bandages, and Oliver already sits up.

Oliver stands up and thanks him, both of them awkwardly relaxed about one being stabbed and the other patching them up. He gets up to leave, and when Malcolm hears the front door close, he wonders if he should have tried to steal a kiss.

That look Oliver gave him...he saw it before. But only now did he connect the dots - Rebecca carried that same glimmering look in her eyes when she came home from the clinic she tended to with so much care. He saw it briefly in Moira's eyes, but it never appeared a second time. But that glint in Oliver's eyes, it was so strong and so  _unwavering._ Not even Rebecca could hold that look for as long as Oliver did.

If he wasn't mistaken, Oliver was very much in love with him.

Perhaps he has been, all this time, but Malcolm was too blind to see it or was too entangled with Moira and even Rebecca. But he frowns and shakes his head decisively. He chose not to be with Moira because of guilt. He would never be able to look at himself again if he was forced to honor Robert's memory by fucking his son.

So, ever so coldly, he slams his heart shut and refuses to let anyone in.

 

...

 

**Three Hours Ago**

 

Malcolm finally decides to visit his son, knowing full well how angry Tommy was with him.

He had made every decision based on Tommy's safety, but Malcolm, upon giving it a second thought, realizes how much he was forgetting the comfort of his son. The reflection left his ego battered and bruised, but he continued staring out the window as his limo took him across town to Laurel's apartment. 

There is a different driver today, and perhaps, for once, Malcolm doesn't feel invaded when he sits in his own vehicle. 

He hurries up the stairs, nervousness driving a spike through his heart, and knocks on Laurel's door. It takes a few minutes of waiting, but Malcolm feels as if they were hours. Tommy answers the door, and the playful look on his face vaporizes when he saw his father. 

"What do you want," Tommy growls lowly, and Malcolm lets a wince show up on his face for a split second. Thankfully, Tommy is too blind and unperceptive to see it. Oliver would have seen it....

Malcolm kicks himself inwardly. He came to visit his son and make amends, and his mind focuses on Tommy's best friend, who happens to be his own best friend's son.  _Allaena._

"I wanted to see you, Tommy," Malcolm says, his voice weak and vulnerable. He sways on his feet, unable to say much else. 

"And I don't want to see you," Tommy replies, brushing off his own words as if they were a simple, casual remark. Malcolm wonders if Tommy is genuinely unaware of what those words just did to him, or if he's deliberately attempting to mentally crush his father. 

"Tommy...I'm sorry," Malcolm whispers, but it's too late. Malcolm finds himself talking to a door he didn't even see close because of the blurriness in his eyes.

Malcolm feels tears want to well up at his own failure, but he doesn't let them show. He just backs away, and flees down the staircase and straight into the limo. When he tells the new driver to take him to Moira's place, at least he doesn't have to deal with a lewd smile. But, for once, it's not Moira's comfort he seeks. Not the comfort in the light conversations they have over a Chateau Margaux or a Inglenook Cabernet Sauvignon. He wants Oliver.

Even,  _even_ if his heart denies that's what he wishes, he still wishes for it. 

When he arrives at Moira's house, he feels blessed by Ra's himself. Moira isn't home, and neither is Thea. Only Oliver remains, humming lightly to himself and dusting off some counters.

"Chores, really?" Malcolm huffs playfully, the pain Tommy gave him evaporating. "My, my, you've changed." Oliver looks at him with a soft smile and a hint of suffering before replying.

"I didn't hear you come in. What a pleasure it is to see you again." Malcolm doesn't miss the way Oliver stresses the word 'pleasure' just a tiny bit. 

Malcolm wants to kiss the boy, all of a sudden. He wants to lock lips with the boy...man he saw as more of a son than Tommy ever was. Even before the island, Oliver had more in common with him. But it wasn't  _proper._

But then, he'd never cared about 'proper' much, did he?

Malcolm weighs the risks of making a risky move such as that, but his thoughts were cut of as Oliver rushes forwards and kisses him first. Malcolm lets out a content sigh, which prompts a noise of relief from Oliver. Oliver was so sweet and salty. He tastes of expensive toothpaste, Belgium beer, and a lasting linger of suffering that never quite left him when he escaped the island. 

"I..." Oliver murmurs. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Malcolm returns, giving him an intentionally lewd smile. Oliver perceives it instantly, and pushes Malcolm against a wall with surprising strength. He's wonders vaguely why his instincts don't kick in on a dominant act such as this one.

Because Malcolm Merlyn hates physical contact.

Nanda Parbat successfully transformed him into weapon, and he was taught through blood and bruises that physical contact most likely ends with injury or death. He’s suffered too many beatings to trust another man’s hand ever again.

But he thinks back to all that training, all that pain, all that _suffering_ , and he wonders vaguely what led him to be here. Here, now, allowing Oliver pin him against the wall.

Either way, Malcolm's thoughts scatter when Oliver pulls in for a second kiss, barely recovering from the first. Perhaps what was so enticing here was the equal suffering in Oliver's eyes. Malcolm briefly regrets the role he played in forcing five years of hell on Oliver Queen, but, like every other thought he has, he can only hold on to them for a split second before they disappear again, his mind demanding his full attention to Oliver. 

They pull away, a world of electricity connecting the intensity of their eyes. Malcom feels un-anchored and as if all the armor he's forced around himself came undone all of a sudden. He wants to be angry. He wants to yell at Oliver to letting him make this mistake, but the only words that tumble out of his mouth are so pathetic and needy, Malcolm wonders if it's really him that's talking. Dark Archer begins to fade from him, one shade at a time, and Al-Saher is already gone. 

His thoughts go wild when Oliver sinks onto two muscular knees and stares up at him with such devotion Malcolm can't quite place. He purrs softly when he feels Oliver's mouth on him.

 


End file.
